


Unafraid

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: Dragon Week 2017 [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Dragons, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: [Day 1]Mick has competed in the Twin Cities Tourney since he was seventeen. He's crashed before.But he can't say he's ever crashed in a sleeping dragon's cave.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One of the dragons in here is named after one of mine, actually. :D Ghilcrist is a sweet bastard.
> 
> And btw, if you haven't heard, it's the first day of Dragon Week!! If you want more info, the URL on Tumblr is superlotdragonweek :D

People wonder why dragon tournaments aren't a good idea.

They write countless treatises protesting any bans the king attempts to put into place, advocating the intelligence of dragons and saying that it is an insult to not allow competitions just because the king  _believes_ dragons can't stop their instincts getting the better of them.

Mick forces his arms under him, ignoring their fatigued tremors until he can roll onto his back. His groan vibrates in the darkness around him, the sound echoing in a way that lets him know he definitely crashed in a cave, not just the base of the mountain.

Hole in one.

He spits blood and what feels like a tooth. More blood drenches him like a bad storm from head to boot. Some of it's his, but most he guesses are from the now very much dead beast he'd slid off like a rag doll after the crash.

Leg's definitely broken, and now that he's tested it, his wrist is sprained. Multiple lacerations from his former teammate's scales have ripped his assigned uniform to shreds, but Mick hated that awful green anyway.

He can already hear his relatives spinning a yarn about Irish luck. 'Cause that had to've been the only thing that saved his hide. Had to've been.

Fucking  _ow_.

With a few pained grunts, Mick moves his good hand over his torso, hoping that luck extends just a little more. Among his own ripped skin and jagged bits of armor, he tries to find an untouched seam that maybe, just maybe...

He groans again.

Lighter's gone.

It's completely dark in here, save for a few specks of light way above Mick's head that might as well have been stars for all they do for lighting. Ghilcrist's impact must've caused a collapse at the mouth of the cave.

Now, normally Mick could've taken out his lighter and blow a few spheres of firelight, but without that lighter he can't do squat. His magic's firmly physical-based; he needs at least an object or picture in front of him to generate some heat. Alone but for a dragon's corpse and a terrible, penetrating cold, he has nothing to go on.

Guess that luck isn't so great after all.

Heaving a loud, deep breath, Mick braces himself and gropes for support.

Only to cry out a heartfelt " _Fuck_!" when his already torn palms scrape against a sword blade.

He utters a quieter, flatter "fuck" when that sword moves.

Ghilcrist is just to his left. The dragon, a long-time champion of the Twin Cities Tourney, is most certainly dead. After close to thirty years riding and living with dragons, Mick knows how to tell a stone rest from dead as a door nail.

Meaning, Ghilcrist is not the one snarling.

Central Kingdom's mountain range marks the center of the aerial racetrack. Every time the king fails to implement a ban on a competition every five years, this range is checked that every dragon living there is either part of the competition or set up for spectating outside of their homes.

Whoever doesn't cooperate ends up choosing an option because for fuck's sake, the king is right: competitions bring out the worst in people, but they bring out the slaughtering beast in dragons.

Which begs the question: what is slithering beside Mick's body?

"I suppose I should thank you," a voice says, smooth as the cold around them.

"You're welcome," Mick replies.

A chortling sound, half-hiss, half-avalanche, fills the cave with ease. "After all, you did save me the trouble of hunting tonight. These tourneys always make air traffic so backed up."

"I bet."

What light in the cave is blocked by a solid mass. Mick can make out a decent set of horns and that's about it.

"You aren't afraid," the dragon says. "I haven't met anyone who wasn't afraid of me before."

Mick hums. "That's gotta suck."

Another chortle. "Do you know that you should be?"

"Yeah."

"Well then. I suppose it's the thought that counts."

Footfalls that should carry the weight of―what ten tons?―barely make an indent in Mick's hearing.

"But competitors should be twice as afraid of death if they're good at what they do. I recognize your face. I know you're the best of the best." The jagged tail spikes tease around Mick. "Color me curious."

"Always nice to meet a fan," Mick says.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Didn't hear you ask one."

A quiet growl. The dragon's patience is running thin. Must be hungry.

"How are you unafraid of death?"

Mick wipes blood from his eyes. "Used t'be 'cause I didn't care."

"Oh?"

Mick grins, teeth red. "Now it's 'cause I don't got a reason."

The mass hovers closer. There's a glint of slitted eyes.

"A reason for what?"

"T'be afraid. I ain't gonna die, see."

The dragon's growls heighten. "Really now?"

"Really."

"And how is an injured human like yourself going to fulfill your word?"

Mick pats Ghilcrist's limp scales. "Might not have a dragon, but I do got a husband."

"What―"

The cold explodes.

"Who's got a dragon."

A roar of grating ice and toppling cities blows Mick's ears wide with the unrelenting volume of twenty gunshots at close range. With no ear plugs.

 _Fuck. Ing. Ow_.

Fortunately, two familiar hands clamp some high-grade ear muffs on him and hold 'em there just in case. Mick lets out a soft, grateful hum.

Light burns Mick's eyelids. Mick turns his head towards the shadow that settles in front of him.

"You finish the race?" he asks.

Mick feels the vibrations of the words more than hears them: "Promised one of us would."

Then Mick doesn't need to ask if they won. "Good."

More roaring. Scales against scales, talon and teeth colliding. The cave quakes, unused to harboring such violence for longer than what it takes for dragons to fly out.

Yet Snart's voice still carries perfectly in Mick's ears: "I told you that you should've stuck with me, Mick."

Mick snorts. "Thought you wanted me to be a  _team player_. Thought you  _liked_ Hunter's team."

Rough riding gloves grip his chin, gently turning his face this way and that. "Three guesses why you're switching next division."

Mick smirks. "It was just one crash, boss."

"An easily preventable crash. If they paid any mind to your six instead of grouping on the other side, we would've been tied as planned. I let them  _borrow_ you for this, Mick. They don't take care of you, they suffer the consequences."

Snart helps him sit up, minding his leg when Mick hisses from the weight shift.

Mick bats his eyelashes from Snart's shoulder. "You're gonna make me weepy, Lenny."

Snart responds by scowling and flicking open a lighter. "Blow."

"Kinda hard to do from here―"

" _Mick_."

Mick gives him another bloody grin. He blows at the flame. Orange magic swirls it into a larger sea, weaving through and under his broken flesh. Len holds the lighter steady even when Mick's body grows white hot under his arm.

Mick watches with fascination as the fire bumps and glows under his skin. Hunter's team always snickers when he tells 'em this isn't possible for him without a solid object, but in these little moments when Mick sees his own magic in action, he forgets to be ashamed at his inability.

After a minute of nothing but Snart's breathing and dragons battling, the fire retreats back to the lighter. Mick settles against Snart, warm and content despite the drying blood starting to itch on his skin.

"Can you stand?" Snart asks.

Mick tilts his head. The light from the cave entrance has the dragons in full view, though upside-down from this angle. Still awesome.

"In a sec. Wanna watch Lisa kick this guy's ass."

Snart huffs quietly, though Mick knows full well that he's watching his bond-sister with pride.

As Lisa's gold body wraps around the muscled magenta of her opponent, Mick asks, "D'you think they'll let me transfer?"

"It's still the first week," Snart says, "And the king owes me for Sauron."

Mick tries not to smile. But the fact that he  _can_ smile about it, because Len is here to smile with him about it, doesn't help his cause.

"The Eye of the Vanished wasn't Sauron, Len."

"Might as well be."

"Big favor though. Sure you don't wanna save it for somethin' more important?"

"More important?"

Under his usual ease, Len sounds genuinely confused. Mick's grin turns a little dopey.

"Never mind."

Lisa claws open the dragon's jaws and vomits serrated ice down his gullet. It bleeds into his scales until there's nothing but a statue to be broken by some very fun hops. Her favorite move.

"Besides," Len says, "this green looks like Spock bled all over you."

Mick barks a laugh. "Don't it?"

Lisa rolls around the ice shards. Perfect to counteract the harsh summer outside. The men watch with little smiles.

Finally, she does a few kitten stretches and settles flawlessly back into her usual grace. Her aquiline blue eyes narrow in greeting as she slithers over.

"How are you, Mickey-baby?" she says.

Mick uses Len's shoulders to push himself to his feet. "Peachy."

"Oh come now. Not even happy to see me?"

Lisa bumps Mick's torso, nearly sending him back to the ground. Mick hums.

"'M always happy to see you, Lise."

Lisa purrs, wings folding at her sides in welcome. "Then I guess you can climb on."

Len gives a passing stroke on one of her curved bronze horns. It's an absent-minded gesture, one he's done a million times over the years, and ever since Lisa had discovered humans and their eyeshadow, her bond-brother wrinkles his nose when his fingers come away covered in the gold glitter Lisa insists on. Mick smirks at his back.

Lisa crouches. Len wraps his hands around the hanging strap behind the foresaddle's stirrup, one foot in the netting loosely tied around Lisa's sides. Mick makes sure he's in the saddle before climbing up behind him. There's a bunch of modern tech for dragon saddles, but tourneys are way too fond of traditional gear.

Once Mick is safely behind him, Len finally gives open attention to Ghilcrist's corpse. The steel armor that marked Team Legends has dulled under the blood and dirt from the crash.

Instead of flying, Lisa walks at a leisurely pace back to the tourney's main field.

...Mick is suspicious.

"Ghilcrist," Len says, "why didn't they saddle you with Gideon?"

Mick's brow furrows. "'Cause xe's Rip's."

"You're an expert on the 'borgs, though."

"Yeah...?"

"And Rip can't fly full-manual to save his life."

"He can do evasive shit just fine. Knows how to work with Gideon great."

"Mhm."

Lisa giggles, a rumbling sound of coins clinking in a can mixed with a viola's laughter.

"Rip grew up with his model," Mick says, "what was I s'pposed to do?"

"He lets Sara ride xem."

"She's co-captain."

Len pins Mick with a Look. "How many years has she flown with dragon-mechs?"

Mick blinks. "You know how long." That being barely a couple months before this tourney.

"And you've been working with them...how long?"

They still haven't taken off.

"'Bout...seven hundred years, give'r take," Mick says, "Vanished Time is weird. Where are we goin' with this?"

Len guides Mick's hand to his hip. "Right now, we're goin' to transfer you and kick their ungrateful asses for the next five years."

He presses a kiss to Mick's jaw.

Mick stares blankly at Lisa's lithe neck.

"C'mon, sis," Len calls.

Lisa bares her teeth and takes to the sky.

This...this is gonna be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> ngl i'm still a Bitter Bitch over the treatment of Mick Rory.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Welcome to Dragon Week!


End file.
